Out of Ashes
by rendezvous
Summary: On: manic Krad (definitely), seductive Dark (not really), and the nature of the paradox (sort of). Rated for Really Terrible Yaoi Passages. (first timer here, please excuse any, uh, misconceptions.)


Out Of Ashes 

[I can't believe I'm writing yaoi—little, ol' white-bread me.  It's Meg's fault I tell you!  Meg!  (See: shameless plug)  Also, please excuse any OOC-ness; my Chinese is unreliable at best, and when you're reading the volumes without a translator...well, suffice to say, some of the, uh, finer details get lost.  ^_^;;]

[November 3rd, 2003]

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It was the third month of his keeping, the seventh since that Dark had come into his—_Satoshi's_—life, the thirteenth since he had first stirred, a bare half-awakening before lapsing back into the cold of dream.  It was the thirteenth of that month, a night cradled between the absence of the moon and the cold-bright stars overhead.  It was 11:57 exactly, and he stroked the sword in his hand as he would a child, as he would Satoshi-sama, when his master curled up into himself, into the darkness of his own mind, into a corner that belonged to Krad only, a corner that was seeming perfection and unreality.  When he touched his cat-fur hair, held him against his chest, dark eyes and the slender, lithe line of neck, chest, thigh—willingly or unwillingly, it didn't matter—it was the most real thing he had felt in a long, long time.

He waited out on the rooftop with Satoshi an uneasy presence against the back of his mind.  His master had told him not to kill Dark, not to hurt him in any way, because with Dark gone there would be no Daisuke boy to take away his master's attention.  He had agreed, of course, claiming just a little talk with Dark_ would do both of them a world of good. But even the most loyal servants would turn to disobedience, especially if they knew it was for their master's own good._

A shadow shifted out near where elegantly carved door met with the blackness cast by the new moon.  His eyes flashed, tried to follow movement.  Couldn't.  But then—_there.  Again. _Just a subtle shifting and he was skidding down in that direction.  The shadow—it was Dark, he could smellit, _feel _it in the way his breath panted out, in the way his chest tightened and his hands convulsed around the cold metal.  He had to, had to, had to—had to catch up, Dark a figure in front of him, darting in and out of black like a mouse scurrying through trash.  And that was what he was, a mouse, a rodent that he would catch and crush beneath his heels, grind down first the tail and then the lower feet and then pop out the knees and make him screamscream_scream_—

Someone was screaming, so low in his throat that it seemed almost half-purr.  He realized that it was him.

Sparks.  The glint of black leather disappearing around the corner.  His sword swung down as he rounded too, cursing the narrow alleyway because he couldn't take to the air and strike from above.  Metal met brick, and sparks lanced from the wall to his arm.  He hissed.

Narrow.  The alley was narrow, and black, and there was the faintest sound of wings beating against air, then soft, muffled noises, and he spun around with his sword raised and—

Someone tapped his shoulder from above.  "Looking for me?" Dark said, and laughed.

_"Dark!" _he screamed, and swung blindly.

A draft of air curled around his hair as Dark darted just out of the sword's reach, still laughing.  The glint of leather, the smell of Dark—musk and cigarettes, sweat—was all he had to go on.  Logic.  He should be logical, think clearly.  But it was so _hard _when Dark was this nearby, an arm's reach away, both of them blocking the other from the opening and neither willing to back out.  He swung again.  A harsh tremor ran up his arm as he hit wall again, and the light of sparks flared to life for a brief instant.  It was in this instant that he saw Dark's face illuminate for the briefest of moments—slanted eyes and mouth curled into a smirk—before his arm was twisted up behind him.  Bone cracked.   He let go of the sword.  It fell to the ground with a _clink_, leaving him with Dark's grip around him like steel and a hand coiled around his throat. 

"Didn't I tell you to calm down a bit before you came to see me?"  He sounded amused.  Krad snarled, tried to twist out of his grip.  Dark only held on harder.  They stayed like that for some while, him fighting like an animal, clawing out with hooked hands and trying to wrench away from him, hating him for keeping him there against his chest so easily, hating him that much more because it reminded him of Satoshi, of the way he would fight at first, all hissed out denials and trembling limbs, his hair and his chest and the curve of his cheek, how _warm _he was, because now Dark that held onto to him, and he just _stopped._

Stopped, so suddenly that Dark's grip loosened and he could've pulled away if not for the feel of his hand splayed across his chest, warm like—like _Satoshi_—but more, and stronger.  It tightened again, keeping him there.  He hated it.

The sword was lying on the ground, next to his feet.

"Let go of me."  Guttural.  He sounded guttural, even to himself.

"You underestimate me, Krad."  Deliberately, Dark wound a hand through his hair, fingers threading their way onto scalp.  His grip tautened, and he pulled, slowly, until he had forced his neck all the way back, and he had to look up at him with pain stinging his eyes.  "I'm not stupid."

He wanted to spit at him.  Instead he just said, "Tell your little keeper to keep away from Satoshi, _Dark."_

"But..."  He smiled, leaned into him until his breath warmed the hollow of his throat.  "You're in no position to tell me what to do.  And I'm really too distracted right now to bother."

"_Bastard,"_ he choked out, and then Dark's mouth was covering his, burning in cinnamon and something musky, with just the right edge of winter-fresh.  It was too hard, too fast, too unexpected.  Instinctively he bit down on the other's lip, hard enough to force Dark to jerk back, but not hard enough to keep his body from pressing him up into the wall.  His lips left; he tensed as warmth trailed down to where shoulder met collarbone, where teeth set down into prickling skin.  He gave a small pain noise.  He was shivering, and not sure if it was a good thing or not, and still trying to push Dark off with shaking hands but not getting anywhere.  He grabbed his wrists, pinning it against rough brick; shoved him further up against the wall until a cry of real pain forced its way out of his throat.  With a kick of extended leg the sword leapt up into his grip, almost eagerly.  The metal was bite-cold against his neck, freezing when only a moment ago there had been his lips, stroking, biting, suckling.  

"One," he said.

His vision hazed over in black; he couldn't _stand _this, no no no_no_, and it didn't matter that he knew Dark was doing this on purpose, to provoke him so that he couldn't even see straight—

"_You_ keep away from Daisuke," he said, "And really, this shouldn't be such a big problem."

"You _fucker," _he shrieked, and lunged against the cold silver at his throat, bluffing—_bluffing_—that Dark would move back.  

He did, eyes widening just a bit.  Krad kicked forward and slammed into him, all the confusion and anger and hatred bearing him down into the ground.  They both flung out hands for the sword, Dark half a heartbeat faster, his hand closing around the hilt like a slow-moving nightmare.  Krad kneed him in the gut, then lunged as the other man doubled over.  His fingers brushed just over leather, and closed.  And then Dark tangled fingers into the collar of his shirt, and yanked.  He fell backwards into his body, breathing heavily.  Cold—the metal was so cold as his grip slipped, Dark's fingers numbingly painful around his wrist.

"Two," he said breathlessly.

"This is no _game—!"_

"Oh yeah?"  He laughed, swiped his hair out of his eyes.  "Well, I'm having too much fun for it not to be."

"Fun?" he seethed.  "You don't know fun!"  And then his wings burst from his back, and he screamed, pain and triumph and fury all merging into one.  He pushed off from the ground, ignoring some the sting as the narrow walls scraped against flesh and feathers.  With the sick joy pulsing in his veins he darted to where the sword lay.

"This is the game for you, Dark," he said, hand wrapping around the hilt.  "You run, I catch up, and I kill you."

Dark's head was bowed, but then he looked up with the hateful smile curving his lips.  "And would your dear Satoshi would be happy about that?"

"Don't you dare bring Satoshi into this."

"But that's the reason you hate me so much."  He spread his hands, the angry red scratches on his shoulder where he had left on his mark showing too clearly, even in the dim light.  "Right, Krad."

"It doesn't matter."  But still he didn't move, wings beating just enough to keep him off ground.

"Otherwise it might be different, hmm?"

"You're fucking _teasing _me."  But then he was speaking to nothing, because Dark disappeared up into the night sky, a flurry of black wings and the hint of laughter, bitter upon his tongue.  "Oh no, you don't," he breathed, and raced up into the sky, following his scent, of cinnamon and sweat and musk, and his laughter, trailing like ghost fingers down the small of his back.

He flew faster, wings beating and the wind so cold it seemed like he was flying in ice water, struggling against the current and failing.  The shadow out ahead, one that he could barely make out—the weight of the sword slowing him down only a little, him too furious, too desperate to get at Dark to let something so insignificant hinder him.  He was panting, breath forming clouds and then dissolving back to nothing again.  

The figure took a sharp right, around the corner of a building.  He veered too, avoiding a collision with a billboard only by long practice.  For a moment after he cleared it, he hovered there, unsure of where Dark had gone—eyes darting back and forth, shadow to shadow, until it landed on one in particular.

Something sounded to his right.  He whirled around, carved into an empty space with a glimpse of black darting to the left.  "Come here, Dark," he snarled, and lashed out again.  This time the sword connected with something solid.  When it came back it was black-silvered with blood, and Dark was hovering the mid-air with his hand clutched to his shoulder.  Something dark and wet leaked out from beneath his fingers.  

"Three," he said, and smiled.

A whistle of air, a cracking sound, a crunch, and his wing blossomed in back-spasming pain.  Distantly he heard Dark's voice, a crackle of triumph that only just reached his ears, strangled by the rapidly closing fog: _"Daisuke ain't around to save you this time, Krad."_

"_Dark," _he managed, though he didn't know if he gave voice to it or not.  Maybe it was just all in his head.

--

When he awoke he was back in his little space, settled comfortably in against a silk cushion.  Vaguely, he picked at a cream-colored tassel, watched its strands shift in his hands.  The blanket tucked around him was silk too, the finest that he could bring here, to this place.  He had always liked silk.

Satoshi was seated next to the window, watching the moonless night outside.

"Satoshi-sama," he said.

He looked over.  "Oh.  So you're awake."

"Am I—" he looked down at his hands, his arms, his shoulders, touched careful fingers to his neck.  "—dead?"

The quiet boy went back to looking out the window.  "Why would you be?"

"Because it was Dark."

Satoshi shrugged.  "Daisuke stopped him last time."

"But he said—"

"Does it matter what he said?  Dark would say anything to get a rise out of you."  He glared his way, eyes a hint frosty.  "I expect he thinks you're fun to play around with."

"The bastard—" and Krad's hands clenched into fists.

"Hush," he said.  "There's always a next time." 

"..."

"Don't you agree, Krad?"

"Yes," he said, very slowly, "I suppose so."  

Because, just because, he trusted Satoshi-sama, above and before everything.  He thought this, and was quiet.

It was the third month of his keeping, the seventh since that Dark had come into his life, the thirteenth since he had first stirred, a bare half-awakening before lapsing back into the cold of dream.  It was the thirteenth of that month, a night cradled between the absence of the moon and the cold-bright stars overhead.  And in the little room that was neither reality nor dream, the clock struck exactly 11:57.

_~fin~_

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End file.
